


turn that frown...into the inverse of a frown

by thefudge



Series: changing the narrative [1]
Category: Veep
Genre: F/M, May/December Relationship, Office Romance, Older Man/Younger Woman, awkward pairing, i feel like i'm the only one who sees smth here but whatev, total dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4x02. Kent volunteers to talk to Catherine about her low likability numbers. Things don't go as neatly as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn that frown...into the inverse of a frown

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the lines are taken directly from the episode. Yes, they had only one hilarious scene and that was enough for me. I am trash. Expect this series to go M later.

He can see why Selina doesn’t like her own child.

Oh, no, he’s not that callous; he’s only observing plain facts. Some people are born with disabilities. Catherine’s disability is that she is awkward and unlikable. It’s not her personality. It’s her chemistry, he would argue. She is of a Melancholic humor, which means her predominant bile is black.

No one likes to affiliate with black bile.

She's served very well as an invisible prop in her mother’s career, so far. By some cruel twist of fate, the disabled child must now be brought forth and exhibited to the world.

He pities her, the way you pity a lame horse that will get shot later in the afternoon.

Her face is crumbling in a very ungainly pose as she surveys her likability numbers.

“Oh God. This is like high school all over.”

“Sure. But _much_ bigger. We're talking about the whole country here…” he trails off, pressing down his thumb on the spreadsheet. He wants to impress on her the magnitude of these numbers - until he realizes his faux pas.

“Which, of course, bears _no_ comparison to high school whatsoever. High school consists of a homogeneous group of same-aged individuals, whose mentality is that of a bovine herd. Whereas a country…”

“…is the exact same thing,” Catherine finishes for him. Bitterly, he might add.

He chuckles off-hand, stepping around her chair. “Clever. But I’m afraid sarcasm doesn’t go well with your narrative at the moment. However, we can solve this. We can _change_ your narrative. Did you know Berlusconi’s son refashioned himself into a fitness expert?”

He is picking at his words, making pauses for her to adjust, but her shoulders are still trembling.

Kent tries to pat one of them, unsuccessfully.

“Oh, my. These are _sharp.”_

“I – don’t – want to be – a fitness expert,” she says through short gasps.

If he appreciates anything about her is that she is a silent, almost discreet crier.

“Neither do I,” he replies smoothly. He sits down at his desk and knots his fingers together. “So let's talk alternatives. Customary shortcuts to public affirmation are usually military service or childbirth.”

Catherine’s eyes widen. She looks like a famished deer. He wonders if maybe she needs a snack. Should he call a secretary and order her some – what did kids drink these days – Aloe Vera juice? 

“Okay. God, no. And, oh-my-God no. In that order,” she says, dumping her likability numbers on his desk.

“Well, then we go back to the idea of turning that frown…into the inverse of a frown.”

Catherine rolls her eyes, like anyone her age would at this point. But he, once again, appreciates the discretion of her contempt. She appears flippant only to the most attentive of observers. All those years of doormat-daughter really paid off.

“Upside down?” she interjects.

 _Turn that frown upside down. Right. That’s how it goes,_ he nods to himself. He must have programmed his mind to erase such an asinine rhyme.

“If you will.”

Catherine folds her arms meekly, but her temper is about to manifest itself in some verbal form, he figures. And he’s ready to take it. He agreed to do this. And he’s not fazed. This is a strategy meeting, after all.

“You’re giving _me_ advice. The guy who can’t say a simple nursery rhyme. The guy who has to use a thesaurus to speak. The guy who has _no_ people skills.”

Kent purses his lips as if he’s considering a rather thorny administrative issue. He pushes some envelopes on his desk and uncaps his pen. Writes down something about running a likability poll on himself, scratches the idea and looks up at Catherine, who is staring into his skull.

“I’m flattered, Miss Meyer, but I don’t require a thesaurus.”

She shifts into her seat, but her eyes still drill tiny holes into his forehead.

“Well, I do, just to be able to understand _you._ "

“Please. Don’t insult your intelligence. I’m sure you’re more than capable of understanding my vocabulary.”

Catherine’s lips open in clumsy surprise.

He realizes he’s attempted chicanery on the POTUS’ daughter. This is highly inappropriate.

“I apologize,” he says quickly. “I did not mean to engage in repartee.”

“No. You didn’t. That would require a dialogue,” she replies tremulously. “Which no one around here is willing to have. Maybe that’s why your campaign is going to hell.”

Kent raises an eyebrow. “You are proposing more communication. Now you are giving _me_ advice, Catherine.”

She snorts, although in her mouth, the laugh sounds dramatic. “You’re good. You're really good at mincing words. No one can say they don’t like _you_.”

“I...sense this is getting more personal than it should be,” he remarks coolly.

Catherine blinks and for a moment, she is confused, as if she doesn’t know how they ended up here. In the middle of this conversation. He blames his work ethics. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Sorry about that. I know you guys hate _personal_.”

He knows it’s meant to be another sarcastic comeback, but she sounds genuinely apologetic, which throws him off a little bit.

“I don’t mind personal," he shrugs. "But this isn’t about me. Or you. _Well_ , it is about you, but it only relates to an abstract entity that bears your name and your features.”

Catherine throws him an incredulous look.

Kent puts up his hand.

"That sounded better in my head."

"Would you just _please_ -" she starts in a supplicant, imperious voice. Doormat-daughter with a personal valet, he needs to remember. 

“All right. All right. What I’m trying to say is that…you’re not a beaming, cornucopian princess who graduated top of her class at Vassar and is in the habit of flashing a mirror smile every time someone mentions the United Nations’ summer program. Nor have you journeyed through Burkina Faso with nothing but a rucksack on your back in order to save wildlife and secretly protest the intolerant regime because that would look good for a Democrat’s daughter.  You are also averse to infants of any kind, judging from your quick dissent to childbirth and your appalling results during the kindergarten triathlon you hosted last week. So – why should America like you, rhetorically speaking?”

There are - he counts - at least fifteen seconds of unfulfilled silence. 

Catherine bites her lip as she looks sideways.

“I…I organized a Czech movie club in my faculty."

Kent's facial muscles undergo a twitch.

"We had a whole month on, um, Milos Forman," she elaborated. "Y’know the guy who directed _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_? People didn’t even know he was Czech. Well, he still is. He’s alive.”

Kent uncaps his pen again, purses his lips, frowns – and wait, is that his stomach? No. He's chortling. More like laughing. A hearty laugh. A bit gutless too, because he’s not sure how it started. 

He's pretty sure he should stop. 

He tries to quiet down, but it just gets worse. His saliva gets stuck in his throat. He lunges for the minuscule bottle of water at the edge of his desk and - of course he pushes it over. 

Catherine bends down. She picks it up and hands it to him. Almost out of reflex.

"Thank you."

He drinks half the bottle in one gulp. He tries not to gurgle. He hates it when people guzzle down liquids like that. His first wife used to slurp her wine like there was no tomorrow. He tips his head back and lets the water run into his mouth without a sound. It's unnerving. Catherine watches him aghast.

When he's put the bottle down, he takes out a handkerchief and starts dabbing at his mouth. He should probably wipe his tie too. Nothing really happened. A thirsty intermission.  

"Are you okay?" she asks indefinitely. 

“I believe he also directed _Amadeus_ ,” he says, putting the handkerchief back in his pocket.

It takes her a moment to figure out he's talking about Milos Forman.

"Yes, he did." Her eyes are bulging. He has to say something - anything - to assure her he's not some kind of sociopath. A sociopath would _obviously_ not worry about this.

“Would it be odd to say it's a favorite of mine?” he asks sheepishly, or in a tone he believes to be adequately sheepish. 

Another ten seconds of staggering silence.

"Uh. No. It's not odd. It's a lot of people's favorite movie."

Kent grunts. "Well, I said  _a_ favorite of mine. Not _the_ favorite. Not that I even have _a_ favorite. I mean, _the_ favorite."

Catherine leans back and cocks her head to the side. She is probably wondering if he takes Valium on a regular basis. Which, sure. He does. But that is not the point.

The point is, he's got nothing. There is absolutely nothing he can add or amend to this bizarre turn in the conversation. But the number-crunching trivia machine inside of him has to keep going. 

"The lighting in the movie is exceptional."

"The lighting," she repeats. "You like the lighting."

"The scene with the cape - which is incidentally on the poster too, if I'm not mistaken -  they used a lot of...shadows for that. Chiaroscuro, is it?"

At this point, he'd rather be a sociopath. 

Catherine twists her mouth. The corners go up a degree. It's no - 'turn that frown upside down'. In fact, it's pretty stringent. But it's something. 

"I mean - I'd have to re-watch the scene-"

Kent nods, as if this all makes sense somehow, as if they’ve made _a lot_ of progress already.

"Good. Good. That's good."

Catherine looks down so he can't see her mouth. He's pretty sure she's going to laugh when she gets out of this office. At him. 

Well, only fair.

He laughed at her too.

He settles a meeting for next week, where they’ll talk more about changing her narrative. Seriously, this time around. 


End file.
